The sun was beginning to dip below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the empty field. The ball sat a few feet away, still spinning slightly from Meguru’s last kick. He didn’t chase it this time.

Instead, he sat on the floor of the old court, back pressed against the wall, chest rising and falling with quiet exhaustion. His legs were stretched out in front of him, scuffed from the pavement, his hands resting limply at his sides.

He was alone.

As always.

The echo of his own footsteps had been his only company for hours. No teammates. No cheers. Just the sound of the ball hitting concrete and the wind brushing past.

People never stayed.

They called him strange. Obsessive. Too intense. Too much.

They didn’t understand that football wasn’t just a game to him—it was everything. It was the only place where the world made sense. Where he could breathe.

But even that wasn’t enough to keep the loneliness away.

He pulled his knees to his chest, burying his face in the space between them. His voice came out in a whisper, barely audible.

“I’m… a weirdo?”

The words hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.

A small, sad smile tugged at his lips, as if he were trying to laugh at himself, trying to make it sting less.

But it still did.

Because no matter how fast he ran, how hard he trained, how much he loved the game—He was still just a boy sitting alone on the edge of the world, wondering if there was a place for someone like him.